“This surgery will make you better, Sweetie,” my mother whispered, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. I clung to that promise as the hospital staff wheeled me away.1
In the time that it took to blink, I was looking up into the cheerful eyes of a young woman whom I’d never seen before. She said she was Denise, my anesthesiologist (whatever that meant), and she asked me all the questions that any five-year-old would enjoy answering. As I bragged about my best friend Tyler, I couldn’t help but notice the large, ominous equipment that someone had put so close to me. I tried to ignore its strange buttons and lights, and told Denise how good I was in school; that my favorite color was red; that my mommy was the greatest in the whole wide world. When I got to telling her that I knew my multiplication tables, she smiled (her surgical mask was in the way, but I saw her cheeks move) and nodded, an eager listener, but she was watching the needle that she had just stuck into my I.V.. I tried to inform her that pancakes were my most favorite food ever, but I suddenly felt strange. The bars over the glaring lights above my head blurred into muted colors, and the beeps from the machine on my left found a slower rhythm. The last thing I heard before I lost consciousness was Denise’s calm voice assuring me that I’d be all better when I woke up.2
My doctor had told me, in the sober and businesslike voice which apparently comes standard with all PhDs, that my surgery would leave me in what he called a full body cast. He’d also explained to me just what that meant, but I had accepted the idea without really thinking about its implications. Over the following two and a half months, however, I had nothing better to do than become disturbingly well-acquainted with this new form of imprisonment.3
To be in such a cast meant that I was stuck in my den on a mattress my parents moved there for me. It meant eating meals made of generally soft food, because my mom had to feed me. It meant being constantly in the stream of one fan or the other, lest I get overheated. It meant constantly seeing shapes in our textured ceiling, because that was the most interesting thing to look at. It meant having too much time to think and being unable to so much as scratch my own nose if it itched. Above all, it meant that I could feel nothing other than trapped. Being in that cast meant that I was a prisoner in my own body, in a far more literal sense than I ever wanted to understand.4
I spent many sleepless nights reliving the dream that I’d had when I was unconscious on the surgery table. I had thought it was a beautiful thing then, simply because, in that dream, I was running. My face was in the wind, the wind was in my hair, and my feet were strong beneath me. I pushed firmly against the earth with each step; my lungs worked more than they ever had in reality; but I wasn’t tired—only free.5
That happy image was my understanding of “better,” and it was a stark contrast to reality. When the cast came off and the therapy was over, I wasn’t running into the wind, or playing baseball, or laughing as girls chased me and tried to get me with their cooties; I was taking small, shaky steps without the aid of my cumbersome walker. Despite the value of those steps, all that mattered to me was the promise that no one ever delivered, and the body that still held me captive.6
I think I lost myself somewhere around then. I spent months, and then years, trying to find a way to break free. I tried to play games with the other boys at school, but they eventually made me their scorekeeper. By the time I was thirteen, it was established that I could not attempt to walk, run, dribble, throw or catch anything, or so much as touch sports equipment without harming myself or someone else. I saw what everyone else considered to be a “normal,” well-liked teenage boy, and I saw myself, hovering far, far below that standard. Much of my energy was devoted strictly to wallowing in that crippling sense of inadequacy.7
One evening, I got sick of pitying myself, and decided to empty the contents of my head out onto a sheet of notebook paper. When I took the pencil into my hand, it was with the aim of achieving personal catharsis—I did not expect it to come so easily, or feel so wonderful. The graphite slid across the smooth paper, forming simple lines and curves. They were just words, but they were more to me. They were lights in windows beside doors that led to new opportunities, new hopes, and new dreams. 8
The coming weeknights saw me up into hours that were previously foreign to me, but I paid little attention to the angry red numbers on my bedside, even as they demanded that I sleep, because I was far away. I was wrapped up in tales that I wrote, of not only my life, but the lives of others, lives not yet lived, and places not yet discovered. My earthly woes had little power over me, for I was too busy saving people from monsters, or letting them be eaten. My hand seemed to work on its own, and soon I had many notebooks devoted to my writing. Still now, words are my joy and my sadness; my glimpse into all of life, and my best defense from it. Words are more liberating to me than any saw or welding torch or mile-long sprint: They are freedom incarnate.9
Author notes
So, this was written for my AP English 11 class. Mrs. McElroy wanted a universally-appealing story that wasn't cheesy. I don't think I satisfied those criteria, but I kind of actually like this.
I spent a whopping two hours on this. Let's hope I didn't fail!
A contest entry
- Exceptional Stories To Be Published - 3 by Andy Stephenson.
350 points, ended December 28, 2008, 23 entries
Honorable mention
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Things I Look For In A Good Write by beezy92.
450 points, ended January 1, 55 entries
Honorable mention
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 12 of 12
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Wow
This wasn't just amazing, it was beautiful. It was well written to the point where I felt myself lost in the character. At the end I could feel the character's joy flowing over from the story and into me. The description was great. The beginning was cute, and helped to let into the child's mind. The middle was good, because I could feel the sadness of the child. Th end was amazing because you can feel his new found happiness.
beginning: 4, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, characters: 5.
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This is a really great story! I love reading narratives, because it kind of allows the reader to really hear the thoughts of the narrator or the characters. The title is absolutely perfect and despite the length, everything was told in the perfect-size story. Excellent job!
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This was an excellent narrative! Very well written! I really enjoyed this!
Here are a few mistakes I found:
' It meant being constantly in the stream of one fan or the other, lest I get overheated. '
Why would he get overheated him he had a fan?
There are a couple of other ones, but I was lost in reading your piece and didn't feel like going back and finding them. Sorry! Good job though, and keep writing! Write On!
beginning: 5, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 5, characters: 5.
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It kind of makes sense
Making the reader feel sorry for your character then giving him a sweet and harmless ray of hope. It's one of those tales of hope, courage, determination etc that nobody would dare to criticise.
Stories like this always get people saying nice things about the author.
As for me, well what could i possibly say? -
Wonderful story. i don't quite get what happened to the narrator but that's not important here. the thoughts are very clear and i feel as if i'm the one thinking them, not the narrator. since it was a personal experience, it explains the real feeling in this story, and that's just great!
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Amazing doesn't cut it when it comes to this. At least for me. It was raw and it felt real while I was reading it. I connected with the character, and I guess that's what every writer wants to accomplish when they write something. To have a reader connect... Reading this is like breathing. I guess this spoke to me on a deeper level than I'm used to experiencing. For sure, it has given me a goal: to write as well as you, someday, in my own way. Well, anyway, this was fantastic. Thank you for writing, and I hope your days are bright!
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With this kind of story, it's very easy for it to become trite
But it wasn't!! It was lovely and original and it felt real, like you had actually been through it yourself. It was a beautiful portrayal of an unhappy subject. I just hope all the other entries will be as good as yours! (:
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Very Good
This story is well written and kept me involved throughout. I like it. It comes across like a true personal experience. Is it?
Thanks for entering Exceptional Stories To Be Published - 3.
Andy
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Thanks. :]
Yes, it was a personal experience. That's what the teacher wanted, so...I obliged. Glad you liked it!
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This narrative has very good structure. The sentences are easy to follow, and the characters were defined without needing too much explanation. The subject, freedom, is definitely a powerful topic and this is a side of it that I've never explored. Very well done ^_^
beginning: 3, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 5, characters: 5.
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honestly well written, i love it.
I do that to, when i'm upset I tend to do my best work, so goo don you.
keep it up.
Cheers
Hunter~
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Wow. I don't think you can critique something like this. Its so honest and well written. Wow.....
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